


Disco Stick (aka Karl Can't Dance or the Lady GaGa Chronicles)

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karl can't dance but Chris can. So can Zach. Cue some smitten, irrational, jealous fervor, Kiwi-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disco Stick (aka Karl Can't Dance or the Lady GaGa Chronicles)

**Author's Note:**

> What started off as a complete crack!fic ended up as a much longer than intended, rom-commy sort of fic with crackish elements. Includes references to early '90s Genesis, _Knocked Up_ , _So NoTORIous_ and the very fierce Ms. GaGa.

Karl can't dance. And neither can Phil Collins, apparently.

"Come on, Karl, shake it!" Chris exclaims. He lifts his arms in the air and starts singing loudly. "I can't dance! I can't talk! Only thing about me is the way I waaaalk!"

It's late on a Thursday afternoon and Chris Pine is strutting across the length of his own living room, walking like an Egyptian, à la the Bangles. Karl rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the strange and ridiculous display from his best friend. He picks up the Genesis CD on Chris' coffee table, curling his lip in disgust as the wailing continues to emanate from the speakers on his impressive stereo system.

"What _is_ this crap, Pine? God, I want to punch myself in the face for ever thinking you had a glimmer of good taste."

Chris stops in his tracks and gasps loudly, clutching his chest in a dramatic fashion, as if he's been shot through the heart and Karl's to blame for giving Genesis a bad name—even though it's damn well deserved.

"Karl, how could you?! That was one of the first CDs I ever bought!" He runs back to the sofa and grabs the ancient plastic case out of Karl's grip, curling up with his legs tucked beneath him. He turns the case over in his hands, gazing down at it reverently. "I used to sit by the pool and listen to this album on my little boombox, over and over again."

"And I bet your family loved you for it."

Chris looks up at him with an adorable pout. "My sister tried to throw it in the hot tub."

Karl smirks at him and pats his head. "I rest my case."

"Stop being a cockwad and dance with me, Urban."

Chris scrambles off the sofa again. To Karl's dismay, he starts shimmying in his too-tight, dark-rinse jeans and striped short-sleeved polo; the latter rides up and exposes his stomach when he lifts his arms over his head. It's a hell of an outfit, Karl decides. He isn't sure if he wants Chris to wear it 24/7 or if he should burn it in a bonfire so he never has to be tortured by it again. He reaches down and adjusts himself when Chris turns away, trying not to look at his backside as it...jiggles. Or, well, it jiggles as much as someone with such a toned physique as Chris can jiggle. Which seems to be quite a bit.

Karl sucks at the lip of his beer bottle desperately. "Cockwad?" he tries.

"You're avoiding the lure of the dance," Chris retorts, turning and flicking his hand in the air with a flourish. Karl leans back slightly, completely unprepared for _that_ gesture. He's too distracted to stop Chris from grabbing his free hand, pulling the beer from the other one and setting it down. "Your feet, they want to move to the beat. I can feel it."

"I think that might be a stroke," he says, arching a brow.

"You know, I think you're right." Chris pulls him close so they're flush against each other, chest to chest, and before Karl can even stutter in embarrassment, the kid grips his hands and sighs dramatically. "I'm not long for this world. Dip me, Karl."

Then he swoons. Actually fucking _swoons_ , right into Karl's arms. And Karl, well, he catches him, in some kind of pseudo-dip, as requested. He gapes down at Chris as he somehow holds a terribly graceful arc of his back, not knowing whether to drop him on the ground and run away screaming, mutter profanities as he tosses him into a sharp edge of the coffee table, or just...kiss the living hell out of him.

As if he really needed another reminder that he's in love with Chris Pine. Seriously, this is some bullshit right here. And even worse? Chris doesn't have the decency to let Karl bail first.

"Oh, shit," Chris says, hauling himself up and straightening his shirt. "I gotta run. What time is it? Shit. I hate to kick you out, man, but..."

"No, it's okay. I've got, ah...plans. Out, um...outside." Karl nods, futilely pointing toward Chris' front door and pursing his lips severely. Chris just lifts his brow, going to turn off the stereo.

"Hey, yeah. Wow. Outside. You'd better wear your safety goggles, man. Shit gets crazy out there in the fresh air."

"Shut it, brat. What do you have going on that's more important than prancing around your sitting room with me, anyway?"

Chris shrugs, meticulously putting the Genesis disc into its case and sliding it into its proper spot. He's a complete slob in all other areas of his life, Karl notes, but Chris' precious music collection is the one thing he remains completely anal about. A quick scan of the CDs tells Karl that it's filled with a lot more gems beyond that innocent Genesis album: Christina Aguilera, Train, Matchbox Twenty, Lady GaGa. A wave of nausea forces him to look away.

"I'm meeting up with Zach," Chris says nonchalantly. Karl grabs his jacket from the sofa, frowning at him.

"And I'm not invited? I like Zach."

"Yeah, I know. But we've been planning this for a while. And, y'know, you're my best friend and he's my other best friend... It's just best-friend time."

"Well, all right," Karl concedes, putting on the jacket and adjusting the collar. He starts to walk to the front door with Chris, who grabs his own jacket from the coat rack in the foyer. He really has no plans for the rest of the evening, beyond going home and trying to catch kettle corn in his mouth when he tosses it into the air, but Chris and Zach obviously need their precious alone time, so he'll go willingly. "But you owe me a tango," he adds.

"Really?" Chris blurts, obviously _way_ too excited.

"No," he amends. "You owe me proof that you're actually a man despite the fact that you apparently know how to tango."

Chris huffs at him as he opens the door to let them out. "The tango is a virile dance!" He reaches back inside to turn off the light and pauses to lock the door. Karl smirks and makes for the stairs.

"You're going to tango lessons with Zach, aren't you?" he sighs. They head down the stairs and cross the lawn toward their cars in the driveway.

"Maybe I am," Chris says with a shrug. "You don't know. Maybe we're gonna fucking murder a cha-cha."

"God, I could murder a burrito."

"Fresh air _and_ a burrito? You're gonna break the sound barrier if you're living life at that speed, old man. Ah, crap, now I want a burrito."

*

John unfolds his napkin across his lap just as the waiter swings by and drops two plates of very gloppy, overflowing burritos onto the table. Karl happily wraps both of his hands around the foil-wrapped log of Mexican love and goes to town; he comes up for air when he sees John still blinking down at his food with a bewildered gaze.

"What's wrong?" he asks, with a mouthful of food.

"Karl, what is this? What fresh hell have you unleashed upon me?" He picks up his fork and prods at a brown puddle on the plate. "Or...expired hell, as the case may be."

"Those are refried beans."

"They look like baby poop. And I would know, seeing as how you pulled me away from my duties in cleaning it up."

Karl licks a smear of sour cream off his upper lip. "It's authentic!" he protests.

"Man, I thought we were going to do something fun tonight, not sit around and get food poisoning. I finally convince Kerri to give me a night off and you want me to watch you get fat?" John scowls, taking a sip of his Corona. "Let's go to a bar or a club and watch people with low self-esteem do body shots off each other."

"I'd rather get fat," Karl says glumly, taking another large bite of his burrito. John gives him a sympathetic look and tilts his head.

"Okay, Urban. What's really bothering you?"

Karl sighs and puts down the greasy mess he's been mentally referring to as dinner, leaning back in his chair. He has no idea where to begin. It's been a few weeks since that first time Chris shooed him out of his place to go have "best-friend time" with Zach. Since then, he's endured a series of canceled plans, skipped drinks, rushed meals and cut-off phone calls. And it's always, "Oops, sorry, Zach just got here, gotta go" or "Oh, man, I almost forgot I had plans tonight!" or "Zach is on the other line, tell me about the rest later." It's always Zach, Zach, Zach. And Karl is fucking sick of it. He's been drowning his sorrows in burritos for lack of anything better to do and miraculously, he _hasn't_ yet gained any weight. Probably because he's afraid Chris would notice if he did.

"I miss Nat," he finally says, slumping. He figures that's a good enough response for the mean time. The divorce finalized a few months ago and Karl's been leaning mainly on Chris, since his other best friend has been busy playing house with his beloved wife and child. Not that he blames John; he's just annoyed that he had to go and start falling for the one best friend who _was_ available, just as he started to make himself unavailable. John frowns, looking a little remorseful for his previous remarks.

"I know, man. That makes sense. I'm sorry I haven't been around for you more often. Here, look. I'm having fun, see?"

John picks up his burrito then, and takes a big bite, filling his mouth with beans, rice and a hodgepodge of cheesy, gooey stuffing. He chews enthusiastically at first and smiles, then slows down, his expression shifting into pained horror. "Oh, god," he grunts, furrowing his brow. "I think I just threw up in my mouth but I can't even _tell_."

Karl regards his beer bottle, looking pensive. "Do you think Chris and Zach are dating?"

"I'm g-gonna puke," John stammers, looking green as he gets up and rushes off toward the bathroom. Karl sighs to himself and dips the rest of his burrito in John's leftover guacamole, finishing it off.

*

"Take two," John announces. He and Karl clink their shot glasses together before downing them, and Karl answers his friend's hiss by shoving the bowl of pretzel sticks on the bar toward him. He managed to procure them by specifically asking for some kind of snack food when he realized John would be drinking on an empty stomach. Miraculously, the bartender had a bag in the back that was probably older than John himself.

"Thanks," John says. He motions around at the bar and chews on a couple of stale pretzels. "Now, isn't this better?"

Karl looks around at the bar with a squint. It's full of bright, annoying strobe lights and loud dance music that he assumes would be exactly Chris' cup of tea—because as he knows all too well, Chris loves to dance. Everything is pink and silver and purple, including the other patrons, and most of them seem to be between twenty and twenty-five, tops. He and John are way too old to be here and it's only tolerable because it's half past nine and the place isn't too crowded yet. For the most part, it's Karl's worst nightmare. He shrugs at John, licking the whisky stain from his lips.

"It is, in the sense that it doesn't smell like your vomit."

"You must have a cast-iron stomach, Karl. That was just...that was _bad_. And I did a whole movie about greasy mini burgers. And the meat on those would melt if they were too hot! They'd get all nasty and congealed with the cheese and—"

Karl lifts his hand to stop him. "Please. You're going to make me vomit, next."

"It'd serve you right. So, anyway, what were you saying before? Something about Chris and Zach boning?"

"I didn't say _boning_." Karl grits his teeth and motions to the bartender for another round. "I dunno...Chris keeps blowing me off lately to go spend time with Zach. And he's so unapologetic about it. I just have to accept that whatever he's got planned with Zach is more important than spending time with me. So, either Chris and Zach are having some sort of not-so-secret fling or Chris finds his company more exciting than mine."

John nods, looking serious. "And that makes you sad because you want Chris to be all up in _your_ vagina instead of Zach's."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

"I'm sure it's a sweet pussy, Karl. Maybe you should just give him a sneak preview."

"I'm drinking your shot," Karl grunts, drinking his own and then swiping John's from under his nose, tossing that back as well. "And I hate you," he adds, gasping.

"Yeah, I'll have a Corona," John says, waving to the bartender. He looks at Karl with something that looks way too akin to pity for his tastes. "Dude, I don't know. Maybe they are going out. They do have that 'epic bromance' thing going on that everyone loves to talk about. Though I don't know why they'd have to keep it a secret from the rest of us." He shrugs and waves a hand, picking up his beer when it arrives. "Maybe they're plotting world domination together."

"By the mighty force of their eyebrows?"

"Dude," John says, laughing. He points a finger at Karl, sipping his beer. "I both fear and respect those eyebrows. I'm man enough to admit that they strike awe into my heart."

Karl quirks a smile. "Quinto's or Pine's?"

"Both! Imagine if they got into a fight? It would be, like, Sleek Italian Caterpillar versus Fuzzy American Caterpillar. Battle to the death!" He starts miming the action with two pretzel sticks and Karl watches him gleefully bang and rub them together for a few moments before sighing woefully.

"They're fucking," he mutters, sagging forward.

"We don't know that," John points out. Karl purses his lips.

"Yeah, well... _I_ want to fuck him."

"Okay, we _do_ know that."

Karl's own eyebrows shoot up. "You know that? How?"

"You just said so." John shrugs and eats the two pretzels in his palm. "And you're acting like you just got jilted by the prom king on the night of the senior formal. I put two and two together. And I didn't even need a calculator to do it."

Karl huffs at him. "You just ate your eyebrow caterpillars," he says.

"So I did," John agrees, nodding. "Not as tough as they looked."

A few rounds later and more people start filtering in, which reminds John that he has to go home and be boring and married. Karl remembers that feeling well; most nights, he misses it. He wants to protest that the night is still young and try to be fun and single and spontaneous, but hell—he's not as young as he used to be (as Chris constantly reminds him) and he doesn't have it in him anyway, so he asks for the tab and takes out his wallet and BlackBerry, checking the time.

"Earlier than it feels," he notes. He glances at his calendar, scrolling through his upcoming week. "When will I see you next? Zoe's birthday party, right?"

"Sure, Zoe, I guess," John says. He's half-lying on the bar, head propped up in his hand, his eyes trained on something going on across the room. Karl looks and sees a bunch of college-aged kids doing body shots of tequila, just as John predicted. He rolls his eyes, putting down enough money to pay for everything.

"Go home, John. To your wife and kid, remember?"

"But...body shots," he whines. Karl pats his shoulder lightly.

"Body shots will be here another day, John; that much I can promise you."

*

Being in love with Chris Pine is stupid. Mainly because Chris Pine never fails to make Karl feel like he's pushing his golden years. Also, Chris is good at _everything_ , whether it's dancing, acting, drinking or flirting. One thing he's especially good at is basketball, and as Karl chases him around the half-court, absolutely dripping in sweat, he can't help but think that courting Chris would be comparable to climbing Mount Everest, if just being his friend is this exhausting. As Chris pushes by him to make yet another flawless lay-up and sink his millionth basket, Karl saves himself the trouble of watching and just bends to grasp his knees and catch his breath. Breathing sounds pretty good right now.

"Who. Is. The. MASTER?" Chris shouts, clinging to the hoop for a few moments before dropping back down to the pavement. Karl grunts, shaking his head and shutting his eyes so the sweat doesn't leak in and sting.

"You...are such...a little...shit," he manages to get out. Barely. Chris dribbles his way over and when Karl looks up, he can see the younger man is sweating, too; nice of him to lower himself to a little common perspiration, Karl thinks. "You're a lot younger than me, you know. It...it isn't a fair match."

"Age has nothing to do with it. It's all those burritos you've been putting away." Chris reaches over and pats Karl's back, grimacing when his hand comes back damp. "You need electrolytes. I've got Vitamin Water inside."

"Can I bathe in it?"

"As erotic as it sounds, to lovingly bathe you in fruit-flavored sugar water, I'm gonna pass, thanks."

Upon entering the house, Chris wastes no time in throwing a towel in Karl's face and instructing him not to drip "man juice" on the freshly waxed floor. Karl laughs amiably and accepts the offered Vitamin Water with sincere thanks, guzzling down about three-quarters of the bottle before coming up for air. "I have more," Chris says with a teasing smirk as he gulps from his own drink. Karl nods gratefully.

He feels about ten times more human by the time he's halfway through his second drink and the A/C in Chris' living room has somewhat dried him out. Chris sits next to him on the sofa and flicks through television channels lazily, his knees spread in a way that makes the fabric of his shorts stretch over his crotch—something that Karl should not notice. He would also assume it's not kosher to pay attention to the movement of Chris' throat as he drinks his unhealthy health beverage. Because noticing things like that about your best friend is stupid, especially when he's fucking Zach Quinto and you don't have a polar bear's chance in hell of changing that.

"Close your legs; you're attracting flies," he mumbles. Chris laughs in surprise and crosses his legs, settling on a random baseball game. Karl doesn't care for baseball, though he's willing to bet it's yet another activity at which Chris excels.

"I thought you dug my natural musk," he replies.

"That's disgusting."

"You love it. You're welcome to use my shower, by the way. And I'll lend you some clothes to change into, so you don't scare all of Silverlake with your own musk."

Karl sighs, pushing back his sweaty hair. "They won't fit."

"I have some baggy stuff. Go on."

"I'm not fat," Karl says, halfheartedly. He pats Chris' knee in thanks, wincing a little as he starts to get up, grunting at the effort it requires. "I'm getting too old for this."

"Yeah, probably. Oh, hey! Speaking of getting old." Chris sits up and looks at him with wide, bright eyes that take Karl by surprise. He's just so good-looking when he's earnest, damn him. "You're coming to Zoe's birthday party on Friday, right?"

"Uh...yeah, I think so," Karl says, slightly confused by the sudden question. He's more bewildered when Chris' face falls.

"You think so? Oh, come on; you said you were going! Karl, you _have_ to be there. It's gonna be awesome! Zach and I have this whole thing planned and it's epic, I swear; people will be talking about it for—"

"Right, you and Zach," Karl says, looking away. Great. They're probably going to come out to everyone as a couple and then Karl will have a perfect excuse to drink himself even more stupid than he already is. He idly wonders how they'll do it. Champagne toast? A rom-com worthy kiss for all of their friends to clap and cheer over? And it probably won't even occur to them that they're upstaging Zoe on her special day. Karl grunts and lifts himself off the couch, forcing himself to mask a sneer. "Yeah, I'll be there. For Zoe."

"Well, yeah," Chris says, nodding and smiling at Karl like he's crazy. He probably is, for thinking he could ever stand a chance with the kid. He visibly cringes when Chris calls after him. "Zach left this designer salt scrub here the other night that you should try—it smells really awesome, kinda like citrus."

"He stayed over?" Karl asks, because he just can't help himself.

"Yeah, it was pretty late, so..."

Karl nods and says nothing more, just goes into the bathroom connected to the master bedroom and locks the door, turning the shower on and adjusting the temperature until it's nice and hot. He strips off his damp clothes and picks up the jar of salt scrub, reading the fancy-looking label—lemon and verbena scented, which explains the citrus description. He takes a quick sniff, nods his approval and proceeds to dump the entirety of its contents into the opened toilet bowl.

Then he takes a regular, masculine hot shower. With regular soap and regular shampoo. Chris' shampoo, which smells of granny smith apples.

When he finishes up, he finds that Chris has laid out fresh clothes for him on the bed, and it takes a lot not to just press the fabric to his face. He resists, though, because it would really suck to be a fourteen-year-old girl in addition to being stupid and crazy. And he's got enough on his plate. The fact that he smells like Chris while wearing his clothes should be comforting, but it just makes him angry instead. He stomps out into the living room and shoves his dirty clothes into his gym bag, ignoring Chris' imploring look.

"I spilled the scrub stuff," he grumbles, zipping up his duffel. "Sorry." Chris just blinks at him, motioning to the television.

"You're leaving already? I just found this rugby game, I figured we could—"

"Thanks, but I gotta run." Karl turns to leave and he can feel the kid's pout burning a hole in his back. It doesn't stop him.

"But we've hardly hung out at all lately!" Chris tries.

"Yeah, well, whose fault is that?"

He lets the door slam shut as he leaves, already praying that aliens come and invade the planet any time between now and Friday at eight. But preferably after Zach visits Chris again and finds that his precious, undoubtedly expensive salt scrub is all gone.

*

When six-thirty rolls around on Friday and the planet seems to still be intact, blissfully uninhabited by alien life forms, Karl turns off the television and supposes that's his cue to go ahead and get dressed. There's still a chance that some kind of rogue spacecraft could land on his car during the drive there, though, so hope stays alive.

He admits defeat when he pulls into the lot of the posh club that Zoe's rented out for the evening, both his car and his person arriving completely unscathed. He hands his keys to the valet and mutters, "If the aliens come now, tell them they missed their chance." The guy gives him an appropriately disturbed look and hurries off to park the car.

Zoe spots him almost immediately upon his entrance and shouts his name, running over for a warm, tight hug. "You came!" she exclaims. Karl almost cringes at the incredulity in her voice but he knows he hasn't been a barrel of laughs over the past few months. He wouldn't miss her birthday, though—she's his girl and she's done a good job of fighting off her instinct to pity him, post-divorce. She's the nurturing type, Zoe, and he knows all she really wants to do is come to his apartment and stroke his hair and make him soup. But she hasn't. He's grateful.

"I got you something," he says, moving back enough to hand her a small, gift-wrapped box. She squeals and opens it immediately; Zoe can never wait when it comes to presents.

"Oh, god, _Karl_ ," she whispers, pulling out the delicate Hermès scarf from its packaging. "You're ridiculous!"

"It's nothing." He smiles and gives a shrug. The truth is that he was happy to have a reason to purchase a gift for a woman again. A strange thing to miss, but there it is. "It reminded me of you."

"Well, I love it. Thank you." She embraces him again and kisses his cheek with a faint smack of her lips. "Listen, I have all these people pulling me every which way, but I want to talk to you, so don't disappear." She wags a finger at him and then motions to the dance floor as she strides away. "Chris is over there, by the way." As if he wants to know. Of course he wants to know.

"Great, thanks," he says. He waits until she's gone and then heads directly to the bar.

He knows practically everyone here but he's not really in the mood for small talk. John entertains him for a while but Kerri is here with him, so he can only watch the body shots going on in the corner for a minute or two before he has to excuse himself. He overhears an absurdly intense and long discussion between Anton and Eric about Jolly Rancher flavors. Rachel successfully flirts with the bartender and distracts the man from doing his job of pouring Karl's much-needed drinks.

Eventually, someone does attempt to goad him into conversation, sitting down on the barstool beside him with a thump. "Mister Urban, I presume."

Karl answers without looking over. "Mister Quinto."

"Tonight's role of the brooding, lone wolf will be played by New Zealand's favorite son. Oh, hey, can I get a vodka tonic?" The bartender goes to make Zach's drink and Karl exhales. He can already tell that Zach is here to be annoying and pedantic, and he's not disappointed. "So, what's this I hear about you throwing a hissy fit and flushing eighty dollars worth of designer body scrub down the toilet?"

"I didn't throw a hissy fit," Karl blurts. "Or...flush anything. Wait, _eighty_ dollars?"

Zach just nods, accepting his drink with a flirtatious smile for the bartender. "You know, I actually left that behind on purpose because Chris liked the scent so much. I'm trying to break him out of his generic drugstore bath product addiction. I mean, the man uses green apple Suave shampoo, for fuck's sake. I'm amazed his scalp hasn't detached itself from his skull in revolt."

"For Chris...?" Karl asks, barely following after three shots and two and a half beers.

"Yes, but I didn't tell him that. So imagine his surprise when you 'spill' the entire jar, thinking it's mine, and then leave his place in a tizzy." Zach shrugs and sips his drink, using the tiny straw placed in the glass. "But yeah, it was going to be like, 'Oh, Zach, you left your scrub here,' and then, 'Oh, I have more, you keep it,' and then he actually puts something made from natural botanicals on his body for once in his life, heaven forbid."

Karl blinks at him, completely bewildered. " _Eighty_ dollars?!"

"Follow, Urban," Zach states, gripping his shoulder. "You made a scene and left in a huff. Chris noticed. And now he thinks you have a problem with him, so he sent me over here to sniff out whatever it is that's plaguing your tormented, masculine psyche."

"Maybe he if spent a little less time with you and a little more time with me, he'd figure it out on his own," Karl gripes. This sends Zach into a fit of laughter and Karl draws back with a sneer. "What? You're the one who brought it up, verbena boy."

"You're _jealous_! I don't know; it's just so...simple. And precious. Ahh." Zach grins and shakes his head, and Karl wonders if he can get the man's head to explode by glaring at him hard enough. "Dude, we've just been practicing this dance that we're gonna do tonight for Zoe's present. And stop looking at me like that; this isn't television and my head won't explode due to force of extreme concentration."

"Dance? What dance?"

"Ahh, it's just this silly thing...you'll see. Anyway, if that's all it is, then Chris will be back to his normal schedule of 24/7 dude-bro time after tonight, so don't even sweat it. Though you should apologize to him; he's been all lovesick for days now, with that hangdog look that he gets when he's huffy and sad. It's kind of a snooze-fest."

"Wait," Karl interjects, pausing to collect his thoughts. "So...you're _not_ fucking?"

"Karl, you are a _scientist_ ," Zach exclaims, clapping him on the back as he stands. "It's show time pretty soon, so I gotta go. Just let it marinate, okay?"

"Marinate. Okay."

Zach takes his leave with a wave, vanishing with his drink into the crowd. Karl blinks and regards his near-empty beer, mentally wading through the glut of strange information freshly dumped into his brain. There's going to be a dance. Chris and Zach have been practicing for said dance. They're not fucking after all. He's supposed to marinate; whatever that means.

Wait—did Zach say _lovesick_?

Karl flags down the bartender in a hurry. "Yeah, another round. And fast."

*

A few minutes into this round, Anton starts waving his arms at the patrons by the bar, asking them to vacate the area. Karl grumbles and picks up his beer, wondering just what the hell Chris and Zach have planned. He's wasted so much energy on being pissed off at them and now it turns out there was no coming-out event planned and they were just meeting for some kind of dance practice. He takes a long swig of beer and wishes, just for a moment, that he knew how to dance.

"Hey, what'd I miss?" John says, appearing at Karl's side out of nowhere. A crowd starts to gather around them and Anton is making sure Zoe has a perfect view of the bar, arranging others to stand behind her.

"Not much," Karl replies. "Chris and Zach aren't fucking."

"Really? Hey, that's great! Now you can, y'know..." John widens his stance and throws some imaginary punches. "Get the job done."

"I really hope that you don't equate boxing with sex, for Kerri's sake."

"Why? She's tough. Oh, hey, something's happening."

Karl looks up and listens to Anton make some kind of announcement about "the moment they've all been waiting for," wondering who the hell the kid is talking about. Was everyone in on this except him and John? Suddenly, Chris and Zach appear out of nowhere, wearing different clothes than they had on earlier—sparklier, much more form-fitting clothes—and they hop onto the bar, standing beside each other and grinning down at Zoe. Karl is, for the most part...perplexed. He exchanges a quick look with Chris and gets a small smile and a wave. He lifts his drink and nods, feeling a little light-headed. Whatever is about to happen, he figures that if Chris and Zach have masterminded it, it's got to be fucking good.

"This is for you, Zo!" Zach yells.

"Hit it," Chris says, motioning to the DJ in the back. And then it happens.

Lady fucking GaGa starts to play.

 _Let's have some fun; this beat is sick / I wanna take a ride on your disco stick / Let's have some fun; this beat is sick / I wanna take a ride on your disco stick—HEY!_

On the "hey," Chris and Zach simultaneously rip their shirts off their torsos. Karl nearly chokes on his drink and possibly experiences an aneurysm.

"Oh, god," he hears himself say above John's laughter, and he watches in shock as the dancing queens spin their glittery tear-away tops in the air as the music kicks in. They both throw them in Zoe's direction and she manages to catch the purple one that Zach sported. She lifts it in the air victoriously as she cheers them on, becoming one of those "woo! girls" in front of their eyes. Chris' red sparkly shirt lands on Karl's shoulder. Naturally. He lets it stay there until it slips off.

Everyone looks on with rapt attention as Chris and Zach launch into their flawlessly choreographed dance routine, flexing and bending in sinful ways as they mime and mouth the words to the song. Karl is so mesmerized by the sight of Chris pursing his lips to the words "I wanna kiss you," that he almost forgets to look at the rest of him. That problem is quickly remedied, as Karl can't help but take a good, long look at the lean, writhing beauty on the bar, currently topless and covered in glitter from his shirt. He's nearly blindsided by what comes next.

 _It's complicated and stupid / Got my ass squeezed by sexy Cupid / Guess he wants to play, wants to play / A love game, a love game_

Zach reaches over to help himself to a handful of Chris' ample backside and the kid doesn't bat an eye; he mouths the words "sexy Cupid" and points directly at Karl in the crowd. In reply, Karl turns about fifty different shades of red and downs more of his beer. His crush has officially turned into a Chippendales wannabe and there's not enough beer in the _world_ , at this moment.

It only gets worse when the pair procure these rods from somewhere—collapsible wand or cane-type things hidden in their back pockets—and start twirling them around, sliding them between their legs and doing generally unspeakable things. Karl's voice is reduced to a mere croak of his throat as he stares at Chris; he has zero concept of Zach dancing beside him, nor everyone jumping and hooting in the crowd—not even John, who's got his hands in the air as he rotates and thrusts his hips to the beat.

Right now, it's all about Chris. Just like always, really.

 _You've indicated your interest / I'm educated in sex, yes / And now I want it bad, want it bad / A love game, a love game_

At this point, all the sinuous curving and gyrating and falling down to the bar on his knees (dear _god_ ) is getting to Karl, big time. He finishes his beer quickly and then reaches over to grab whatever drink is in John's hand, gulping from that as well.

"Hey!" John shouts, looking over at him. "You're going to get sick if you mix drinks, dude!"

Karl ignores him and looks on as the song reaches its apex, watching the beads of sweat slide down Chris' torso. Their eyes meet as Chris pivots his hips and runs his own hands down his body; when he licks his lips, Karl's urge to come in his pants becomes far too great to be rational. Being in love with Chris Pine, after all, is stupid. And Karl is a complete, blathering idiot.

"Keep 'em coming," he finally says. He briefly shuts his eyes and downs the rest.

*

When Karl pries his eyes open, he has three immediate thoughts:

1\. This is not his bedroom.  
2\. He's insanely hung over.  
3\. He may or may not have stuck his hand down Chris' trousers last night.

Also, there are fingers walking up and down his spine. Karl groans weakly in response.

"My tongue feels like the underside of a dog's balls," he murmurs into the pillow.

"I find your specificity alarming," Chris replies.

Chris. Oh, _shit_.

"I thought you'd never wake up." Chris reaches around him and Karl blinks at the sight of an iPhone screen in his face. "Check this out."

He presses play on a video and then Karl is being assaulted with the drunken, babbling sight of himself, cradling Chris close to him on the dance floor and keeping the phone at arm's length from him. He can hear his friend's protests in the background as he writhes and does _something_ with his body that _might_ be considered dancing, and then he shouts, "I WANNA TAKE A RIDE ON CHRIS PINE'S DISCO STICK!"

Then it's over. Chris pulls the phone away.

"So, that happened. Let's go get breakfast."

Karl pulls a pillow over his head and whimpers.

*

They go to breakfast at Chris' favorite diner. Karl learns more about the previous evening than he ever wanted to know before he's even done with his first cup of coffee; the second can't come fast enough. Apparently, when you mix beer and whiskey and tequila, you end up plastering yourself to Chris Pine on the dance floor and dragging him into the bathroom for a messy make-out session. And you might cry a little about how alone in the world you are when he tries to politely decline the offer. Then you puke in a stall, fall fast asleep on the ride home and leave a drool stain on the passenger side window in nearly the exact shape of Indiana.

"I have no idea what Indiana looks like," he mutters, adjusting his sunglasses. Damn diner is too bright for his tastes.

"It was pretty uncanny." Chris shrugs one shoulder and bites into his grilled cheese, chewing slowly. Karl does his best not to look directly at his throat as he swallows. "So...you okay, man? I'm not trying to embarrass you; I just figured you'd want to know what happened in case, uh...well, just in case."

"Right. And now I'm well-informed on exactly how I made a complete arse of myself in front of all our friends and probably scarred you for life. And provided video footage as evidence, while I was at it."

"It takes a lot more than that to scar me for life." Chris finishes his sandwich and wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Plus, I probably scarred _you_ for life, with the 'sexy Cupid' stuff and the, uh...glittery clothes flying in your face."

"It seems to have emboldened me, more than anything." Karl sighs and shakes his head, pushing away his half-eaten English muffin and pulling out his wallet. "How much do I owe you?"

Chris gives him an incredulous look, putting down his coffee. "For coffee and a burnt muffin? Nothing, man. Where's the fire, anyway? We've only been here twenty minutes."

"I've got stuff I have to do," Karl murmurs, starting to get up. "I have to get my car back from the club and go pick up some, um...dry cleaning..." He trails off and Chris reaches up to grab his wrist, forcefully pulling him back into the booth. Karl's eyebrows lift over the top of his sunglasses. "They might tow the car," he complains weakly.

"Karl, just sit the fuck down for a minute. Your car will be fine. _God_." Chris frowns and makes that annoyed little pout which is almost as adorable as the hangdog look Zach was talking about. "Tell me what I'm doing wrong, here. You leave my house all pissed off the other night, you don't even _talk_ to me at the party until you're absolutely blitzed and practically trying to rip my dick off—"

Karl winces. He knew he had his hand down there at some point.

"—and now that you're sober, you're bailing again? What the fuck did I _do_? Is it because I was spending so much time with Zach and ignoring you? I really am sorry, Karl... I know you're having a tough time dealing with everything and I've been a bad friend the past few weeks... We had to make sure the dance was perfect and it took me a while to get all the steps just the way Zach wanted, and—"

"Chris, it's not...fuck." Karl takes off his sunglasses and rubs his hands fiercely over his face. He knows he probably looks like hell, but he can't be bothered to care when Chris is doing his kicked puppy ranting thing. He steels himself and speaks as slowly as he can. "I thought...that you and Zach were dating. And I was jealous. Because I like you. There. Okay?" He splays his hands and exhales harshly. "I'm an irrational idiot and I can't dance and I drink too much and pour ridiculously expensive beauty products down the toilet when I'm in a bad mood, and...okay, here it is, loud and clear: I want to ride on your disco stick."

There's a few moments of extremely uncomfortable silence that make Karl want to hide under a rock. But then he feels another hand on his own, giving him a squeeze. Chris is trying so very hard to squelch a grin but it's just not working out.

"Karl," he says quietly. "I want you to ride on my disco stick, too. I want to fuck you so hard with my disco stick that it magically infuses the music into your bones and turns you into Fred fucking Astaire."

Karl allows himself to gape a little. "...This conversation has taken an uncomfortable turn," he whispers.

"I'm serious," Chris says. He grins and extracts a few bills from his wallet, throwing them down on the table. "I mean, I've wanted that for years. But you were with Nat and then after...it just seemed too soon and you're my friend and I didn't want to take advantage. But if you're interested _now_ , well..."

"Didn't want to take advantage? Oh, Christ. You're so fucking dreamy it's obnoxious." Karl grunts and gets up, putting his sunglasses back on. "Come on, before I lose my nerve. I promise not to rip it off."

"You're killing my boner, here."

"Hold onto that; I'm going to need to borrow it in a few minutes."

They practically run back to the car.

*

Being in love with Chris Pine doesn't seem so bad when Karl is all pressed against him in the man's foyer, stumbling into walls and grappling for dominance of a ridiculously hot kiss. In fact, it's actually pretty great because it makes every touch feel better, every utterance sound better and every available stretch of skin taste like heaven on Earth. Karl pushes Chris against the living room wall and opens up his shirt, running his fingers over the skin he helplessly lusted after just hours ago, still generously dusted with glitter. The sparkles come off on his fingertips.

"Shit got all over my bed," Chris whispers. He grins and pushes his thigh between Karl's legs, making him groan. "Quinto wouldn't spring for the good material."

"I don't mind." And he doesn't—one, because he's currently leaning against the wall and grinding against Chris' leg, holy _shit_ , and two, because after this, he's going to be covered in glitter as well and he can't think of a better way to remember the occasion. "Still can't believe you had trouble learning that dance—you, Christopher Pine, who's so fucking good at _everything_."

"It was complicated! Zach is bendier than I am, he can twist his—mmph!"

Karl growls into the kiss, biting at Chris' lips and muttering. "Enough about Quinto. You're killing my boner." He reaches into Chris' jeans and grips his cock expertly, giving him a firm stroke.

"Fair enough," Chris whimpers.

The two of them crash through the bedroom door, pulling off clothes and shoes as they go along, and when Karl gets a chance to come up for air and look around, he feels a sense of déjà vu. This is still definitely not his bedroom but it's a place with which he'd like to become intimately familiar. He's in his boxers by the time they get to the bed and Chris pushes him down with a cocky grin, hard enough to make him bounce on the mattress. His lifts his hands to find them dotted with glitter and laughs when Chris smears some across his chest

"Fuck, but you're a gorgeous sight," Chris murmurs. Karl licks his lips as his heart and his cock both jump simultaneously, watching Chris crawl over him on the bed. "How do you manage to stay in such good shape when you eat so many fucking burritos, old man?" He fastens his mouth to Karl's nipple, tugging a gasp from his throat.

"I know this loud-mouthed brat...chases me around the basketball court a few times a week. You might know him..." He scratches down Chris' back, stopping at his ass and squeezing hard, grinning at the answering groan. "Talks a lot of shit, seems to have bizarre exhibitionist tendencies?"

"Fuck off, sexy Cupid," Chris murmurs. He gives Karl's shoulder a teasing bite then shifts to shut him up with a mouthful of tongue. There are no complaints.

Karl molds himself to Chris and grapples with that slick, sensuous body as they roll around on the bed. His moan sounds savage when their hips align perfectly and they both rush to get rid of any and all underwear, opting instead for the mind-numbing sensation of skin on skin, completely erasing the space between them. Chris' cock is long and not intimidating in thickness—just as fucking perfect as the rest of him. Karl has come to expect nothing less. He thrusts against the younger man, pinning him down with the push of his hips.

"Fuck, Karl, that's good," Chris says, panting hard. He buries his fingers in Karl's hair, tugging as the older man nips and sucks at his sensitive throat. "God, good, good..."

"What's good is you saying my name like that, kid," Karl murmurs. He licks across a purpling mark under Chris' Adam's apple. "Could listen to that all fucking day."

"You might get your wish. Oh, but hey, first things first."

Karl barely has time to think before Chris rears up and rolls them over on the bed, flipping Karl onto his stomach and sinking his teeth into his shoulder blade. He tenses and then absolutely melts under that evil mouth, fingers and toes curling.

"What the fuck?" he hisses, barely keeping a hint of protest in his voice.

"You wanted a ride on the disco stick," Chris says. "Far be it from me to deny you."

Karl bites his lip in slight apprehension as Chris reaches over to the bedside table, retrieving a condom and a tall bottle. It's been a while since he bottomed for a man—marriage has left him a bit rusty in this department—but a quick, shared glance seems to tell Chris all he needs to know. He coats himself generously with the lube and leans over Karl, nuzzling his nape and parting his cheeks with his fingers, sliding his cock between them. Chris rolls his hips and drags his slick cock back and forth over Karl's entrance, moving at an insanely slow and tantalizing pace. Soon, Karl is keening with desire, pulling at the sheets and thrusting back against him.

"Come on, Pine," he hisses, reaching back to grip Chris' hip. He laughs faintly and slides a lubed finger inside Karl, which feels so fucking good that's he moans at an embarrassingly loud volume.

"Say I'm the master," Chris says, adding a second finger and scissoring.

" _Fuck_...you're the master, all right?"

"Good." He strokes inside deeply, curling his fingers and bringing Karl's breath to a stuttering hitch when he grazes his prostate. Even while half-coherent under a torturous round of fingering, he can hear the satisfaction in Chris' voice. "Now, say Phil Collins is the master."

"Fuck, no," Karl grunts, bucking against the bed.

"Yeah, okay. I was pushing my luck. Fuck, you're hot...c'mon."

Chris guides Karl onto his hands and knees and when he finally sinks into him, Karl sucks in a breath as the slow burn eases into glorious warmth. He hasn't had sex in months and it's been longer since he actually felt _connected_ to someone during sex and fuck if Chris Pine isn't turning him into a pile of romantic mush, right here on his sparkly bed. Karl pushes back until Chris is fully seated and they both moan lowly.

"You can't dance," Chris whispers, his breath hot and shuddery against Karl's back, "so I'll lead."

"I'll try to keep up," Karl says, laughing hoarsely.

Chris is true to his word, setting a fluid pace that suits Karl perfectly; he's happy to follow his movements, shivering as Chris runs a hand down his arm and squeezes on his already straining muscles. When Karl shuts his eyes, he sees the hard body against him dancing on the bar again, the filthy swipe of his tongue across his lips and the devious glint in his eyes as he rubs the "disco stick" between his legs and pretends to ride it like a bucking bronco. His thoughts are interrupted by a rough thrust that nearly pushes him down to his elbows; he tightens around Chris' cock in response.

" _Shit_...Karl, you feel fuckin' amazing...please say we can do this every day..."

Karl arches his back, rolling his hips with a moan. "Instead of basketball...?"

"After—when we're all hot and sweaty... Shit, I'll let you fuck me in a tub full of Vitamin Water, if you want."

"Kid, you're gonna kill me," Karl groans. He reaches back and grips Chris' ass, squeezing again, which makes him buck forward. " _Yeah_ , fuck me harder..."

" _Fuck_ yes, Karl, love you," Chris blurts, and that does it; Karl's hand is firmly wrapped around his dick and stroking hard now, because it's the only thing that could make this moment even better than it already is. Chris pounds into him and Karl's muscles quake under the strain as he pulls steadily on his cock, sliding his thumb back and forth over the glistening tip, feeling himself pulse in his own grip. Chris molds himself to his back, biting into any muscle he can get his mouth on, and soon holding back any longer is just too much to ask.

"Coming," Karl breathes, too overwhelmed to say anything more eloquent. Chris angles his hips just before Karl's release and the push of his cock against his prostate heightens everything tenfold. He comes with the kind of yell he didn't know he was capable of, dropping him down onto his forearms, pressing his cheek to the mattress as Chris thrusts erratically, grunting his pleasure. He pulls Karl back by his hips when he releases, buried so deep that Karl would swear he's trying to meld with him.

Between his lingering hangover and the echoes of sex still vibrating through his bones, Karl slumps uselessly against the bed when Chris pulls out. He manages to roll himself onto his back by some feat of superhuman strength. After a moment, he feels the weight of Chris' body settling comfortably on top of him; he reaches up and clasps the back of his head, lightly kisses his scalp. Karl zones out and thinks about breathing and how especially nice it is to breathe when Chris is so near, his scent wafting over everything. Green apples. He'll fucking kill Zach if he ever tries to replace that two-dollar shampoo.

He's so relaxed when Chris finally speaks that he almost doesn't hear it.

"Karl," he says, cautiously, "I'm gonna cry if you don't say it back. Like...big, messy sobs and shit. And then you'll be sorry."

"Tempting," he murmurs. He smiles, running his hand down Chris' back. "But unnecessary. Love you, too. Even though you're a brat."

Chris snorts and kisses his collarbone. "Love you even though you're old."

"Love you even though your taste in music sucks balls."

"You suck balls. In fact, you'll be sucking on some this afternoon. Just so you know." He smirks. "Love you even though you're stupid."

Karl lifts his head with a pout. "Hey. Why stupid?"

"Because," Chris drawls, shaking his head. "If I'd known how you felt, I totally would have canceled dance lessons for _this_. Also: me and Quinto? Seriously? Say what you will about my taste in music, but my taste in men is unparalleled." He kisses Karl for emphasis. "Just promise me you'll never dance when you're drunk, ever again."

"I just had a dose of disco stick," Karl replies. "Hate to break it to you, Pine, but I'm pretty sure I'm the Lord of the Dance, now."

"Karl, _no_."

"My feet, they want to move to the beat."

Karl smiles when Chris groans and mumbles his disapproval into his chest. It might never happen again, but he's won this round.


End file.
